


Hobbies, and the lack thereof

by imladrissun



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-02-14 05:38:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13001004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imladrissun/pseuds/imladrissun
Summary: After you turn your back on the second grave you dug, what do you do next?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> While I love the Netflix shows, I was imagining Frank's show to be a little more isolated/alone than it was. I think sometimes that backdrop helps express Frank's flaws and problems; personally, I imagine him as being alone in that warehouse he was holed up in. While I liked the show, my story here is coming more from that point of view, where Frank hasn't yet gotten to the point of going to meetings, or being very social outside of his work. This is just to explain my mental view of his character and where he is coming from. 
> 
> I think the show had him recover and adapt way faster than I thought possible. This is my take on a slower version of that [with the events of the show still occuring in some altered way].

Frank didn't think their first real meeting went so well. He didn't count all the earlier times, or the times when they were both at Jessica Jones' office. Foggy had always spoken to him as if he had a normal life. He appreciated it. Technically he had known him for a few years, but it was usually in passing. They never spoke for very long at Jessica's, and even then it was mostly Foggy talking while he tried to figure out what to say next. He wanted to seem 'normal' to him, but it never came out quite right, it seemed.

Although in his defense, everything Foggy said seemed like a (cheerful) non sequitur sometimes.

Thankfully, this time Frank was there when he needed to be. Foggy had been leaving her office as he arrived, but stopped to say hello. He always used regular niceties when they talked. Frank had to scramble to come up with answers to questions like 'had he seen Central Park now that the leaves had turned?' 

??? He couldn't imagine why someone would ask him that. Foggy had a way of treating him so normally that Frank actually felt confused for a second. No one talked to him like that, so causal and regular and devoid of work/sympathy/concern/wariness/worry. There was also often a little displeasure mixed in, even from people who were technically his allies. They often didn't even seem to mean it in a bad way, but Frank didn't like it. He just hadn't foresaw how strange it would feel if someone did treat him normally. 

His random little asides always seemed so sincere. Foggy never had anything pointed to say, just observations about the seasons, things that were happening in the city. It was weird, the way it reminded Frank of this other world, of the passing of time. He didn't really notice the passing months too much in particular.

He also saw him sometimes when he and Karen were researching different people. Frank considered himself and Karen to have a similar weight on them, a feeling of age ground in. It wasn't there in lines on a face, but it was there internally. In your eyes. She was just as burdened as him, as unhappy. 

They supported each other as friends, but mostly were busy with their individual missions of justice and/or revenge. Frank was finally done, and unsure of what to do next. 

He had worked with Jessica Jones before, helping with cases that required serious firepower, or just someone ready to fight. While she was unnaturally strong, she had little experience compared to an actual soldier. He didn't speak more than necessary, as she didn't seem like she wanted to hear any pointers. Frank could respect that; he didn't want to hear anything from anyone either. 

A Hand member dressed as a street tough had taken out a knife, but had unfortunately not noticed Frank coming out right behind Foggy fast enough. [He had been forced to put business on the back burner, as Luke had arrived a few minutes after him. Jessica's attention was all on him, every time he was there. It was smarter to leave and come back later, another day]. 

Mostly he'd hid behind his briefcase as Frank tried to dispatch the Hand thug as quietly as possible. 

The little Hand minion was dead. Frank turned to look at Foggy. He didn't feel like he could really use a nickname with him, they'd never really talked, or rather -- he hadn't offered enough back to feel like he could go casual with him. So he went the formal route. His real name felt too distant, and yet too close at the same time. He settled on something in between. 

"Hey, lawyer," he said quietly. 

Foggy kind of peeked out from behind his bag. He looked afraid and it was difficult to see in the alley, what with the low lighting; Frank hoped it wasn't directed at him.... too much, at least. "It's just me," he added, to reassure him the attacker was down; and that he was safe with him. While he was prepared for Foggy to be afraid of him, it would kind of hurt, in some nebulous way. 

Foggy didn't even look over to see if it was true about the guy being down, and Frank was torn between feeling he was worryingly uninterested in his own personal safety and flattered that he apparently trusted his word that much. 

They were standing outside the alley entrance to Jessica's building. Foggy hadn't really moved, or responded. "Next time, go out the front door," Frank said, but still got no response. He suddenly wanted to take that back; to somehow say something comforting. But what? He stepped closer, and then a little more. It was late and dark and he wasn't sure, but he thought maybe it was a case of shock. 

He got close enough to smell Foggy's cologne and gingerly put a hand on his arm; sometimes people did not react well to being touched by someone they knew had killed in cold blood, without remorse. Especially if they saw it go down in front of them. Frank knew what the headlines said about him. They didn't mention the times when he wasn't scary at all, when he felt pretty pathetic, actually. Or the periods of nothingness, when he just kind of stayed home, laying there doing nothing in silence, just zilch. Empty. It always sounded like he was a machine in the papers, constantly dealing out murder left and right. The reality was much more quiet. 

Most people alternated between screaming, flinching or running for it when they realized who exactly was touching them. He braced himself for the sting he was going to feel when it happened with Foggy. He kind of liked him, from a distance.

Frank's life was boring a lot of the time -- there was the research, the staking out people and places, the watching, the routine stealing of several different types of illegal goods, and then the more action oriented parts. He was often at home, in an anonymous apartment that was more like a morgue closet than a place with life. He ate a lot of soup and toast, due to ease of use and wide availability. Sunglasses and a hat matching the season were enough to go most everywhere easily. 

Foggy looked at him all of a sudden, and he prepared himself. He hadn't really seen him for a few days, but he thought of him once in a while. It was more of a bland, white bread fantasy then anything else. Frank would find himself wondering what Foggy would say about some random thing, and in a weird way felt like Foggy would be nice to him. In his imagined moments, they were kind of friends. 

He blinked at him, and tilted his head just barely and said, "You saved me." Frank nodded, unused to this line of conversation. Most people jumped right to the 'you just beat a man to death with your bare hands while I watched' -- although hopefully Foggy had not watched. Frank was really hoping that was the case.

There weren't usually a lot of people in the position to thank him, or any that much less wanted to. Foggy looked at him for a long minute, but it was more deep and knowing than it was evaluating him as a threat. Frank suddenly found himself worried at the change of pace. He was not someone people looked at with those kind of eyes, or flashes of emotion-on-countenance. Well, emotions of the non-negative, really, in general. 

"Well, let's go," the lawyer declared, and put a hand on his arm, and led him out of the alley. Frank let himself be pulled along. Not that he knew where this was going. "You hurt your hand, we have to do something about it; it's okay."

Foggy waved down a taxi, somehow got one immediately, and pulled him in by the other hand; in the mean time he had migrated to holding his hand, more his wrist actually. It was weird, but kind of nice. Frank left his hand there; even Foggy's hand was soft, his own more all calluses from his line of work. "I can go back into Jones's office," Frank pointed out.

He had put on his sunglasses as they approached the street, thankfully. Up close Foggy smelled very good, and it turned out that was just the beginning. A silent car ride later, during which Foggy examined his hand and then just didn't relinquish it, they got out. Foggy paid the driver, and thanked him. As he led him inside he said, "Marci lives in the building next door. I thought why not be closer to someone I know, right... And this was left to me. Whatever -- it doesn't matter." 

That must be some friend or family, he thought. Clearly, not one that precluded Foggy from holding his hand for quite a few miles. He hung up his coat and immediately started taking off his suit jacket. Frank just kind of stood there and watched him. He wasn't sure where this was going to go. Usually, he knew what was happening. One thing led to another, one fight led to another, etc. It made sense. Somehow he'd just allowed this to happen, and he realized with a start that it was because he wanted it to. He wanted to be comforted by someone who was his opposite: not violent, no doling out judgment, not dour and lonely. 

No one could order him around and tell the tale, but this was different. Foggy just assumed Frank would come with him when he pulled his hand; he acted as if this was the expected outcome. It was weird to think that him being taken care of was that normal goal. It was also so good, and so nice to feel, even being unstated. That almost made it better. Like it was so obvious they didn't have to mention it in particular. 

Frank wasn't averse to seeing what happened here. He didn't like to go to the family-filled houses of those he knew anymore, and he had no one else. He wanted some kind of new start, but everyone was connected to his old life. They wanted to talk about how he was doing, what had happened, and just watched him with pity. Fear was much easier to take than pity. Not that his current host seemed to feel either for him. 

Foggy seemed to alternatively have little care for his reputation, [hopefully he didn't just not recognize him or something, but his photo had been in the papers, he had been with Karen at the hospital that first time, so he should know him, right? It was be so bad to see him go from thinking he was a random good Samaritan to realizing he was... himself. 

His little lawyer was currently fighting a very complex coffee machine. He refrained from asking why he had it if he couldn't use it easily. Foggy seemed to forget Frank was there, and didn't assign him to any particular task, or area, or even chair, so he took the opportunity to look around. It felt weird; he could count the number of people who had not kept a constant eye on him in negative numbers. Even Jessica, who scoffed at his reputation, watched him. 

In the apartment, Foggy had oceans of stuff, from books to comic books to sandals scattered all over. 

Everything looked glossy and fresh, but sweet instead of icy. It was the way the rich looked and decorated, but without the cold edge of Scandinavian modern. ...Sometimes he had to wait for Jones to show up to her own office, for their scheduled appointments, so he read the magazines in her waiting room-ish area. Foggy came out from behind the counter with the coffee machine, which wasn't the kitchen, belying the size of the place. Frank was nervous but at least this was a nice adventure. His usual ventures into new places were not this quiet, peaceful, or covered in different imported rugs. "Sit," Foggy said, pointing to the dark blue couch. It looked like it was made out of velvet. It fit in with the rest of the place.

Frank severely underestimated what years of trusting Foggy was going to do to him on several days of little to no sleep. He was busy, okay? It was fine. 

Then he found himself waking up the next afternoon on that same soft couch. In the distance, he heard a fan going quietly. Shoes off, blanket on. And with a pillow -- clearly things had spiraled out of control at some point. And yet, he knew he had just pushed himself too hard and tried to make due. The body can only be pushed so far before it takes control away from you. 

He sat up and found a note clearly written for him, if only due to the language used:

Drink some water!! And check your hand okay. I am going out to get some groceries because I can't cook and don't know what you eat. I don't have any stuff JJ likes anyway. (She comes over sometimes, it's not weird.) So I will be back soon. Don't try to figure out the coffee machine because it won't work. I didn't touch your hand too much because you were asleep. I hope it's okay.  
-Franklin Nelson

He looked down at his hand, only to find it simplistically cleaned. It looked fine. He had slept through it. He shook his head unconsciously. This wasn't something he'd thought was a possibility. 

A few minutes later, Foggy reappeared in the doorway. Frank had tried the coffee machine anyway, and gotten rewarded with some hot water splashing on his other hand. Foggy had not been lying about the machine.

While he had poptarts for days in the cupboards, there was only takeout in the fridge. Frank considered heating it up but thought it would be more respectful to wait for him to return. Also, poptarts were kind of off putting. He wasn't used to eating nonsensical food anyway, it didn't seem to fit into his lifestyle. 

"Did you have some water?" Foggy said upon seeing him, while putting all the bags on the counter. He was wearing different clothes [casual suit instead of formal, it seemed, in Frank's estimation], and no tie. Then he noticed the coffee machine. It didn't look exactly the way it had been left before. He gave Frank an accusatory, yet baffled look, as if the coffee machine was clearly too wild to tangle with and that was obvious to any rational person. Frank was almost embarrassed. He had just been curious. 

"I wanted to see what the problem was," he explained, but Foggy had just rolled his eyes and handed something from one of the bags. It turned out all of the bags were full of random food, from breakfast items that looked like takeout to cardamon. 

"Use the little thing on the stove," Foggy said, and pointed at it. It was a little silver tall pot for making coffee. Frank looked at it, and then back at his... his what. His acquaintance? Foggy and him had little crossover. Nothing in common. 

He hadn't yet said anything about the impromptu sleepover. The apartment had just smelled so good, and you kind of sank into it. A relaxing space. And he did have an expensive looking security system apparatus on the wall. That was why he'd felt like he could sleep there, he thought, trying to rationalize it to himself. Also, it was clearly a very expensive couch; who wouldn't react that way if you happened upon it unawares. 

Frank wasn't sure what to say. It felt strange to just use things in someone else's kitchen. The lawyer was different. Unassuming but not, going for what he wanted but not demanding. He made Frank feel some strange ripple of vulnerability, which made no sense. Foggy probably knew almost nothing about him outside his bad reputation. 

He couldn't hurt him; he couldn't fight him, he had no weapons [Frank was sure of it. He had a sixth sense about what kind of weapons people kept. They almost always jived with the person's personality.] Foggy looked up at him. "We can have juice, don't worry. Do you want to play video games?"

Frank hesitated. He had heard Jessica Jones say that nothing made sense about Foggy and Marci Stahl, but he hadn't realized she was not exaggerating. There was also the fact that he'd never played simple, early computer games, much less the more recent ones.

"You can watch and see if you want to try," Foggy decided, seemingly unbothered by his struggle to decide what to say. He had barely spoken at all, he realized. He just wasn't used to having causal conversations, it was true. They seemed to move much faster than he remembered. 

Foggy took him into another room, took a bunch of the boxes, and there he had all that type of game set things set up. There was another dangerously soft looking couch. He watched him explain the game at length, and then he watched him play it against other online players. 

It was one of the best afternoons he'd had in a while.


	2. Chapter 2

The only thing Foggy didn't talk about that day was his friend, Red. Frank was aware that they had previously been friends, et cetera. Upon inquiry, Jessica informed him that they were still on the outs. After that day, Frank went back to doing what he normally did. Somehow, it wasn't as satisfying. It's not like he could just call him, what would he even say?

And running into him at Jessica's was impossible because it would be too weird and he didn't want her to know. If Foggy was nicer to him in public, or more personal, or whatever, she would figure it out right away. And his willing tolerance of whatever he wanted to say to him would give him away. 

In the end he decided to go out and buy some Architectural Digest magazines as a compromise. 

And so the weeks passed. He made sure there weren't any accidental run-ins again, which was not weird, it was just how his schedule happened to work out. There was nothing to worry about. Rainy, cold days continued as he and Jessica were working on a joint project when she handed him a white envelope, after wiping her bloody hand off on her jeans. 

It was heavy, the paper was. The front was unlabelled, but it was the type of envelope that seemed destined for calligraphy or a billionaire super-villain's threat. Frank looked back up at her. "It's for you," she said, gesturing her head at it. 

"What is it?" he said, as neutral as possible, but it was too late. Jessica gave him a look. "Like I haven't heard you and that guy chat at my apartment? Please. You don't even bother speaking to people you're actually working with, much less randoms. So you have a thing with him, it's fine. I am apparently your postman, due to your security or paranoia issues, I assume. Can't you just buy a burner and give him that number or something?"

Frank stared at her, incredulous, as she went about trying to clean her hands off in the rain. She seemed to think this was old hat. With that, she was gone, and he was holding a letter by the corner. His hands weren't even clean.

He stood there for a while. Technically he'd say he was contemplating it, but really he was trying to sort through his thoughts. He almost didn't want to open it. What were the chances it wasn't something he'd regret seeing? Once you experience something, there's an impression of it laid on you. It's hard to shake memories. They are the true punishment, the condemnation on earth. No need for an afterlife. 

He eventually shook himself out of it, physically, put the letter in his jacket and started off for his apartment, all without opening it. He wasn't looking forward to it. How many times had he been surprised and it had been a good one? 

Unfortunately for him he got to his apartment much too quickly, but had little else to do. This particular workplace collaboration was finished for the time being, the project handled. He had nothing to do. He sat up on the bed and picked up the envelope from where he'd propped it against the wall on the bedside table. 

He pulled it open, and laid it out on his knees. There was a little square note from Franklin [???????] and a ticket to a performance of some kind. The letter said:

Marci can't go to this, but I don't like to go alone because it's more boring that way. If you want to come, do it! I will be there either way because it's our favorite singer and I have to throw flowers on the stage for her like we always do [it's tradition].  
\--Franklin

He read the note a few times. Ok. A music thing, he was just inviting him because there was a slot open. He slid back down and looked at the ceiling. What would he even wear to that? He couldn't show up in his real clothes. He sat back up at looked at the tickets; it was the MET. 

So it was the best of the best. There was no way he could go, he didn't have appropriate attire. There, he thought, and laid down again. It was settled. .... Oh, and also what if he were recognized, he thought, relaxing. It was impossible. 

Despite that mental pronouncement on the subject, he found himself days later still thinking about it. He acquired some more formalwear as a matter of course -- what, he can't go shopping? Everyone needs clothes. He could stop by, he finally admitted. 

As he and Jessica subverted an attempted sale of new firearms, he thought: I could just say hello before it started, but I have to leave then, for work. He nodded to himself. It was good as a plan. Getting to the place all dressed was easy, but hovering outside a flower shop was not. That was what the thing said, that they threw flowers. He knew what they meant; it was the end of the performances when people did that, covering the stage with flowers to show they thought the people were talented.

The salesgirl in the shop came outside and asked him if he was trying to find something he wanted in the window display. When he hesitated, she pointed out that he'd been there for five minutes. And so he arrived, armed with throwing flowers for the singer, and tried to find Foggy. He wore dark sunglasses as a matter of course, but no one seemed to notice. They were too busy examining each others diamond necklaces. 

Foggy was already in the box that he must usually share with that Marci; he watching the people in the other boxes. That seemed to be the theme of the place in general. He didn't notice him at first, and Frank stood there in the doorway looking out at him, debating what to do or say. 

What did people start with? Well, he'd have to explain the flowers anyway, so it didn't matter. "They're for throwing," he said suddenly, surprising himself a little. Foggy jumped and turned to look at him. "Hey," he said, and smiled a little at him, like they were friends. He didn't say anything about his clothes, how he didn't do this usually, or anything else he was worrying about. "Sit down," he gestured, "and a lady will come by in a little while to see if we're going to toss them down there, or want her to bring them back herself. She is such a great voice, who doesn't love her," he said, as if he thought that Frank too was a fan of this classical music singer of some kind, and began waxing on about her performances.

Then he started comparing them to each other, like, which performance of that Offenbach song was the best?!?! This seemed to be a legit question, and Frank found himself seriously listening at points. The rest of the time he zoned out a little to his voice, but did make sure to keep an eye out for anything suspicious. There was barely any theft, though. It was pretty boring, and most of the people were old, or so rich they acted weird. There were no kids, which he liked. 

He kept his sunglasses on and Foggy didn't mention it. Eventually he looked at something in the booklet Foggy was pointing who knows what in, and saw the girl herself; very pretty, very doll-like -- Patricia Janeckova. And then the show started, and it was dark. It went on for a long time, but he alternated between watching the other boxes, the crowd below, Foggy, and the girl. And the other singers onstage. At one point there was an actual sheep out there, which he didn't quite get, but it was an interesting experience all around. 

And then in the end he gave the flowers to Foggy to toss on stage. The singer looked so happy, and it was just a nice moment. It washed over you, as if you could feel that by osmosis. Very nice.


	3. Chapter 3

Weeks go by without anything interesting happening. Well, except for work, which is always interesting. The evil are punished, and he even saves a few people who deserved it. Then he gets another note.

Foggy had invited him to come by the next weekend to 'improve his skills' at video games; describing his apartment's location with the addendum of being 'right across from that sushi place with the giant fishtanks'. As if Frank doesn't recall where he lives in detail.

That weekend was unique, if only for the fact that he was not great at games. Virtual guns were harder to incorporate into fighting than real ones. He expected Franklin to eventually ask him questions about guns, or say anything relevant at all, really, but he didn't. 

Frank almost found himself wanting to talk about it. [He didn't seem to know anything at all about firearms, if only going by his lack of skill with them in the games.] But Foggy was one of his only workplace people, acquaintances or friends, and was definitely his only friend in the normal sense of the word. He couldn't jeopardize that. So he got into the habit of hanging out with him, talking about nothing, and kind of enjoyed it. Ok, it was still more like he didn't really talk too much at all.

It was hard to find things to talk about.

Talking while he was working was easy, this aimless conversing was stranger. He made the mistake of asking Jessica about this Marci that he mentioned once in a while, and it turns out she's a little like him. Except she destroys people emotionally, in court, or through her social circle. Apparently her favorite tactic is to use gossip to prompt people to exile themselves from both their lives and New York. 

He doesn't ask about her, and Foggy never asks him about his work... not that he'd know what to say if he did. He can't imagine that he doesn't know, especially at this point. Castle's heard Jones warning him off spending time with him, but he must get that a lot. The only other person who approves of him is Marci [he's told], and even he's a little creeped out by that. 

He does like to sleep over sometimes, and do nothing the next day. Foggy leaves him a post-it note that says he went to work on most days, and never seems to mind an interloper in his apartment while he's gone. Frank should feel touched, but he's also a bit concerned at how he is so easily trusting. He lounges around and pretty much waits for him to get home from the office.

He gets tired like that; drained. His work can be very demanding, not just the fighting but the intensity of the focus he has to have on everything to succeed. When he's on he's on, and when he's taking a break from work he willingly loses touch with reality.

Frank does nothing, sees no one and just rests, if resting meant acting like the dead leaves on the ground in November. He expects his erstwhile [and pretty much only] friend to ask him about it, but he seems to take it as normal. It becomes a kind of habit with him, to go stay with Foggy when he's not working.

Sometimes he reads through his magazine collection for a bit, or lit one of the weird, expensive candles he had around. When Nelson comes back, he often suggests they play something on the big screen, just because he likes to watch as he narrates how someone should play a video game. The dozenth time they do it, he starts to wonder about all the games as a whole, why are they always focused on bloodshed?

[Foggy specifically showed him one about 'Indiana Jones adventures', but even that was incredibly bloody.]

It's stupid, but he so enjoys how Foggy never asks him for advice -- all the games are fighting, mostly. Guns, hand to hand, sneaking up on people to cut their throats. It's weirdly violent. He still never asks for his opinion, despite to his military experience [and his murder experience]. It's this nice time where he gets to pretend to be a regular person who wouldn't know anything about that type of thing, who could look at a child's computer game like it was a fantasy or a movie instead of being experienced enough to compare it to reality. 

Frank's work acquaintances were tiring in their desire for advice. Mostly, it's more their comments, looks and remarks. While he did like being regarded as an expert, it didn't feel so good at every moment to be reminded it was about blood and death. Every exchange has to be short, concise, or banter, snappy. It gets old fast. Everyone was obsessed with being so tough, with being respected for it. 

It was all stupid. The only thing that mattered was cutting down those who had to be punished. 

There was a flyer at the corner store he stops by every alternate week [he had a schedule for where to buy food for his apartment that was quite varied, so that he know if he was being followed] about meetings for veterans, and he shows up at one. He doesn't choose to talk, but he thinks he's clearly made progress in choosing to attend. He tells Nelson about it, and feels it was worth it for his approval. He never has a hidden meaning, there's no doubletalk; it's all simple, sincere and gentle. 

Sometimes Frank feels more worried that he could hurt him much more effectively and lethally than someone that's actually stabbed him. With him, he doesn't have to banter, or have quick comebacks, he can just relax. 

Then he finds out from Jones that he's 'with' Marci. She warns him in a long lecture that he should make both of them talk to him about their relationship. While she seems to be reeling from some personal issue of her own with women [as far as he can tell], she's not wrong. He should take more of an interest in Foggy's main friend, and perhaps squeeze. There's nothing wrong with that. Frank doesn't feel that love for one person diminishes love for another, not with really good people. 

So he asks Foggy about his childhood, and hot damn if he doesn't like it. His eyes widen, he tenses up, and yet talks calmly about his early life as if it were totally fine. Very boring. 

His reaction says something else. That's when Frank decides to see this Marci for himself. He gets her number from Foggy's phone, and calls her from his apartment. It's 3pm, but he can hear in her voice she's been drinking when she answers the phone. "Hello, Mr. action hero," she says, all punch-drunk brightly. 

He almost starts inside, surprised that she knows his number at all. "Are you calling for my approval of you with him?" she rambles on. "No," he says, "I need to know about when he was a kid. I asked him and he got a little upset. He pushed it down but I could tell it was a mistake on my part. I don't want to make another one. What shouldn't I ask about, and why?"

"Hmm," she murmured, apparently considering it. "That's a non-starter, unfortunately. The who, what, why. But I can tell you you can ask about me at any stage with him, that would be okay. Just no personal question. No family questions."

And yet Foggy had spoken of his family, and he knew they existed. He hadn't been misspeaking then; so what was Frank missing? Clearly something was being tiptoed around. But he didn't want to hurt him by asking. "I don't mind you getting with him when you're ready," she added. "Until then I'll be myself."

He shook his head, not that she could see it. He didn't want to come between them, now or in the future. They were clearly tight. "Even then, be you," he said, a little more urgently than he'd intended. He didn't want to be the sole person involved, he couldn't cover all those bases himself. He was barely emotionally appropriate in his distant, past life, much less in this modern, ruined one. 

Somehow Marci still being with him made Frank feel less anxious about it all. "I can do that," she told him, and hung up. It was something of a novel experience, since people didn't usually dare to hang up on him. 

Could have gone worse, he thought.


End file.
